


Aftermath

by MittenWraith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Fix-it, Episode: s12e21 There's Something About Mary, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenWraith/pseuds/MittenWraith
Summary: Sometimes we all just need this sort of thing that makes everything okay again.





	Aftermath

“Dean, please stop,” Sam shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

He’d said it more than once, Dean knew, but he was still fighting the door he knew wasn’t gonna open.

_Ketch changed the fucking locks_. Shoulda thought of that last week.

“Maybe we can still get out the garage door,” Dean muttered under his breath as he turned to see the whole place lit in the menacing glow of the emergency lights.

Toni had sat down at the map table, resigned to her fate, Sam just looked up at him, watching him warily as he marched down the stairs. Dean breezed past them, a red-tinged flash of deja vu nearly overwhelming him as he turned his back on Sam and stormed toward his room.

_If only it was still last week and it was still Cas standing there with Sam watching him go._

Fuck, he’d have handled all of that differently, too.

_It was Cas. That’s why you didn’t change the locks, you moron. You were hoping he’d come back to you._

It was like it was with Naomi all over again. She’d been lying about Cas then, and Dean knew Cas wasn’t himself again now. But he had more important things to worry about now. Like not slowly suffocating to death over the next two days.

He hit the light switch in his room out of habit, but of course it did nothing. Dean grabbed the flashlight off his dresser and tossed his duffel onto his bed, then filled it with every weapon he had stashed around the room. Lockpicks, crowbar, a homemade flamethrower with about half a canister of fuel left… he didn’t want to waste time having to come back for anything he might need while he was busy playing Escape From Alcatraz in his own home.

_Not your home. Your tomb._

Fuck that.

“Dean, you got a plan?” Sam asked from his doorway as he shouldered the bag.

He whipped around and the flashlight he’d been holding in his teeth left Sam blinking for a second before Dean let it drop into his free hand. “I don’t plan to end up like Fortunato.”

He pushed past Sam and headed toward the garage. He must’ve been stressed because he reached for the damn light switch again. He only stopped to grumble at himself for a second before he went for the tools and picked up a sledgehammer. He tested the weight of it and then handed it to Sam, who’d finally caught up to him.

“You think you can just bash your way out of here?”

“The whole place is powered down, wards and all. I figure it’s better than sitting with my thumb up my ass waiting for the air to run out. Plus these doors are wood.”

“Huh,” Sam replied, glancing around until his eyes landed on an ax. “Maybe this would work better than the hammer.”

Dean looked horrified for a moment. “We could try this first,” he said, holding up the lock picks.

“Yeah, it would be a shame to have to wreck the warding sigils just to get out.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he agreed. On top of everything else in his world having gone to shit in a matter of days, maybe one thing he touched didn’t have to end up destroyed.

“Where’s Margaret Thatcher, anyway?”

“Keeping a stiff upper lip in the war room, last I saw.”

“Figures,” Dean said, crouching down to tackle the old lock. “If the warding’s powered down along with the rest of the place, this… should…”

The lock clicked open, revealing the hidden ramp that led out to the outer door. The one that might give them some real difficulties, if Ketch managed to change that lock, too. They proceeded with caution into the dark tunnel as it curved away from the red glow of the garage. And stumbled across something in the dark.

“Hey,” Eileen said, standing up from where she’d been crouched in the shadows a little farther along the tunnel and lowering her gun. “Don’t shoot. It’s me. Did you get my letter?”

“Eileen? But… how? We just… you were _dead_?”

“What?”

He remembered she couldn’t see his face in the dark, and he was too shocked to remember how to sign anything other than _thank you_ , which made her laugh for some reason. Dean shone his flashlight on his own face and asked the question Sam was too gobsmacked to sign.

“We identified your body in South Carolina two days ago. How are you here? And not dead?”

“South Carolina?” She asked, confused. “I flew from Ireland to Seattle two days ago, and then drove straight here. I parked outside of Lebanon and hiked in, in case they were following me. I found their van in the woods and helped myself to a few of these and then let myself in the second Ketch drove off,” she finished, brandishing a handful of heavy, old-fashioned keys.

“I love you,” Sam said.

“I know,” she replied.

“Well, then,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “We’ve got a secret society of douchebags to destroy. We can fix this place up when we get home.”

The three of them sneaked out into the night and locked the door behind them. After a quick stop at the Impala to retrieve his grenade launcher they headed back to Eileen’s car. The Men of Letters would never see them coming.

**Author's Note:**

> i can also be found at [mittensmorgul](https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com) on the tumbls


End file.
